"I never said you did, Jack," rejoined Peter with mock solemnity
in his voice. "I said you THOUGHT so. And now here he is,--look at
him. Does he look like Scrooge or Shylock or some old skinflint
who--" here he faced Cohen, his eyes brimming with merriment--
"What are we going to do with this blasphemer, Isaac? Shall we
boil him in oil as they did that old sixteenth-century saint you
were telling me about the other night, or shall we--?"
The little tailor threw out his hands--each finger an exclamation
point--and laughed heartily, cutting short Peter's tirade.
"No--no--we do none of these dreadful things to Mr. Breen; he is
too good to be a saint," and he patted Jack's knees--"and then
again it is only the truth. Mr. Breen is quite right; we are a
race of money-getters, and we are also the world's pawnbrokers and
will always be. Sometimes we make a loan on a watch or a wedding
ring to keep some poor soul from starving; sometimes it is a
railroad to give a millionaire a yacht, or help buy his wife a
string of pearls.
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